


Skin Hunger

by not_miss_marple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Kink Meme, Sherlock Needs A Hug, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_miss_marple/pseuds/not_miss_marple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On days like these, he would kill for a cigarette. (Ingredients: acetanisole, acetic acid, acetonin, acetophenone, ammonium alginate, ammonium hydroxide, amyris oil, trans-Anethole, anisoldehyde–)</p>
<p>The worst part of these days was knowing that what he really required wasn’t his seven per cent solution or a mountain of nicotine patches or an incredibly interesting experiment. He knew something that could pull him out of the withdrawals after a case was physical contact; he also knew he couldn’t simply ask someone for the necessary physical contact because he was Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131501433#t131501433) prompt:
> 
> "All Sherlock wants is a hug.  
> "Too bad no one thinks Sherlock needs affection. Too bad no one wants to touch, much less hug, the freak.  
> "Angst, please. Sherlock eventually gets the hug he needs, but damn it hurts in the meantime."

Sherlock slumped against the table, his forehead resting against the rapidly warming wood (currently thirty-five degrees Celcius/ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit/three hundred and eight point one five degrees Kelvin). He hated not having a case. He hated these slow days when he had nothing to do and no way to keep his mind occupied. Days like this made him feel like the junkie he would always be, like an addict locked away as his body strained for anything like the high of a case.

On days like these, he would kill for a cigarette. (Ingredients: acetanisole, acetic acid, acetonin, acetophenone, ammonium alginate, ammonium hydroxide, amyris oil, trans-Anethole, anisoldehyde–)

The worst part of these days was knowing that what he _really_ required wasn’t his seven per cent solution or a mountain of nicotine patches or an incredibly interesting experiment. He knew something that could pull him out of the withdrawals after a case was physical contact; he also knew he couldn’t simply ask someone for the necessary physical contact because he was _Sherlock Holmes_.

For now, the table was an adequate substitute for the touch he so desperately wanted (needed?). The contact between his forehead and the wood grounded him some and helped him stop his mind from spiralling out of control.

He heard the door open as John returned from the clinic. When the shorter man finally climbed the stairs (tread less muffled than usual [always starts walking with his left foot, no limp today, limp comes back when it rains] suggesting that he’d worn his older pair of shoes, faint scent of lemon [lemon cleaning wipes in the cabinet with his spare clothes] which always meant he’d had to change into a new shirt after a younger patient was sick in the clinic–), he saw Sherlock sitting upright in the chair and staring into the microscope. He didn’t seem to notice that the younger’s back was unnaturally straight or that Sherlock was practically vibrating out of his skin because of his boredom.

“Tea?” John asked, flashing Sherlock an unaware smile as he passed to pull two mugs from the top shelf. Sherlock made a wordless humming noise that meant something along the lines of  _yes please_ . When the drink was placed beside him (one sugar, splash of milk, biscuit on the plate–), Sherlock waited until John was upstairs before he picked up the mug in order to cradle the warmth closer to him, closing his eyes to convince his brain that this was enough for now.

—

Being at the lab was no better than being at the flat, which didn’t decrease the feeling of tension bubbling up from beneath Sherlock’s skin. He was too easily distracted from his experiment and every time he heard the slightest sound his eyes would dart up to pinpoint where the sound was made. Molly came in after a bit and Sherlock’s brain lingered on asking her to provide some contact, but the thought only lasted a few moments. Contrary to what John assumed, Sherlock was very aware of the influence he had over Molly and he did not want to encourage her.

Days like today were more conducive to the wielding of a gun than the smoking of countless cigarettes. If John hadn’t moved the gun somewhere Sherlock couldn’t find it without hours of searching, Sherlock would be home right now so he could make a friend for the face on the wall. It might as well have some companionship since no one else seemed to.

His fingers drummed on the table as he scanned the beakers in front of him. Molly left the room and Sherlock looked up again before dragging his focus back onto the task at hand. When she returned after a minute or so (seventy four seconds exactly) he fought to keep his eyes on the beakers. Something rustled as it was placed next to his hand and immediately he looked over to see what it was. A bag of crisps (Walkers, ready salted, thirty-four point five grams, containing potatoes and sunflower oil [thirty-four per cent] and salt, probably in the machine for about two days–) sat there, the wrapping gleaming innocuously at him. He looked up at Molly without speaking.

“Eat,” she suggested—no,  _demanded_ . “You’re wearing yourself out and you really shouldn’t collapse on those. Corrosive acids and such.”

His startled stare made her cheeks redden but he complied, eating a couple of the crisps without complaint before setting them aside to focus on the experiment. He knew he didn’t need to eat—that wasn’t the problem making him fidget and lose focus on the experiment. As much as he hated to admit it, his transport required physical contact to allow his mind to stop racing one way and then the other.

When he looked up from the experiment again, Molly was gone. Sherlock got up and silently put on his coat, going to the door and binning the rest of the crisps on his way out.

—

He took to walking through crowded streets, taking the Tube more often than usual, and hated that he’d been driven to such desperate measures. The contact helped some, but the nagging need remained with him for far longer than he would admit.

When he went to bed, he piled the coverlet together and slept pressed close to it and dreamed of easy, comfortable companionship.

When he woke, he felt worse than ever.

—

He got another case. An  _interesting_ one. He wanted to weep with the relief of having something to occupy his brain rather than his lack of physical connection with those around him. The case required more running and bullet dodging than usual, but he didn’t mind. He was perfectly content with the case until he saw a stray bullet graze the wall just an inch from his eye.

After the case was over (John chased the shooter, tackled him, called the police, checked Sherlock for injuries; his fingers methodically inspecting Sherlock’s skin felt good enough to make him shiver a bit but John didn’t notice), Sherlock sat in a police car with a blanket around his shoulders. (Material: fifty per cent polyester, fifty per cent wool; colour: eye-searing orange, between #f04f01 and #ff5300) The first case with John replayed in his head, but it felt hazy and distant in comparison to the sick feeling in his skin. He curled further into the shock blanket and imagined it was a living being, offering him some comfort.

Lestrade had given him the blanket. He’d rested his hand on Sherlock’s tense shoulder for a moment as he adjusted it around Sherlock. (His expression was sympathetic, almost relieved as he squeezed his shoulder for a brief moment–) Would he be opposed to…? No. The relationship between himself and Lestrade was professional, so any sign of weakness would only serve to destroy Sherlock’s professional image. He couldn’t–

Knuckles rapped on the window and Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Sally gave him a slightly concerned but mostly suspicious look. “Your boyfriend’s here to take you home,” she told him, but the usual dislike in her words was almost completely drained away. (She’d used a hair drier that morning instead of air drying like usual; obviously the case had prevented a date, but she didn’t seem upset about it so she wasn’t interested in the potential partner anyway–) He got out of the car, abandoning the blanket so he could follow John toward the road to get a cab.

When they got home, Sherlock went to the sofa immediately and curled up, his eyes closed. John brought tea and sat next to him. (His steps were curious, bordering on worried; he only made one cup of tea; was he going out–?) “Sherlock,” he murmured.

The way he said Sherlock’s name made the detective’s will crumble and he leaned toward the other a bit. “Hug me,” he mumbled, his forehead against his knees.

(List of base ten Harshad numbers: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 18, 20, 21–)

“What?”

(–24, 27, 30, 36, 40, 42, 45, 48, 50, 54, 60, 63–)

John didn’t sound offended or disgusted, but Sherlock didn’t risk repeating himself. “Nothing,” he muttered as he leaned away again. The next thing he knew, he’d been wrapped in warm, strong arms and there was a cheek against his hair. He froze but gradually relaxed with a quiet sigh.

(–63…)

“Is this what you’ve been needing?” John asked. He sounded a touch amused.

(63…)

Sherlock considered lying before deciding against it. He nodded a little, not wanting to shift and make John move.

(…)

“You’re a ridiculous git, you know that?” The older man laughed quietly, but the sound wasn’t mocking.

“What do you mean?”

“You could have  _asked_ like a normal person would. Is this why you’ve been so tense lately? Have you been getting  _any_ physical contact?” Sherlock nodded to the first question but chose not to answer the second. “Jesus, Sherlock. Why didn’t you ask?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, excuses such as John’s claim of not being gay, the fact that it was just transport acting up, and his image as a cold detective bubbling up. They didn’t get further than that. “Unnecessary,” he finally murmured, closing his eyes to memorise the sensation.

“Apparently it’s quite necessary.”

“It won’t happen again.”

John paused before shifting a little, which made Sherlock cringe. Was he pulling away? No. John tugged Sherlock’s arms up and wrapped them around himself before hugging him again. “Well, if you’re sure you won’t want help again, best make it a good one.” The doctor rested his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder now that Sherlock was taller than him again. “You know I don’t mind this, right?”

Sherlock blinked and looked down at John, confused. “But you aren’t…”

Amusement shone in John’s eyes. “Doesn’t mean I’m so insecure I’ll say no to a hug or a cuddle.” He squeezed Sherlock a bit. “Especially when my best friend needs it. If I asked you, you’d be okay with hugging me. Yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, a bit hesitant. “But that’s different. You’re not… You…”

“I’m not what?” John gave Sherlock a look. “The world’s only consulting detective?” Apparently Sherlock’s silence was enough of a clue that John took the guess a step further. “You think this is going to ruin your image.” Sherlock gave a terse nod. After a moment that made his muscles tense, he heard John laugh. “Silly bugger.”

He couldn’t see Sherlock’s answering smile, but there was no way he didn’t feel the way Sherlock relaxed against him as they stayed close together on the sofa for the rest of the night.


End file.
